Crossroads
by Azul Tigress
Summary: People always had high expectations of Will Stronghold, but now more than ever. When he is hit by a sudden tragedy, he has a difficult decision to make. For the Christmas Time challenge.


_**Crossroads**_

This story was written for Seducing Reason's and Alice Lies Nice Eyes' Christmas Time challenge, and so contains yuletide angst…

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own _Sky High_, all rights belong to Mr Disney.

* * *

What's the difference between a hero and a villain? Good and evil, right and wrong. It's all a matter of perspective, really. Freedom fighter or terrorist. Justice or revenge. 

The cold air bites at my body until I feel numb, but I carry on, propelled by fury. I don't even know what I'm looking for until I finally find it…

The Commander was one of the greatest heroes ever. _Was_. I'm still struggling with the past tense, it seems so wrong. He'd always been there, larger than life. Sure, he joked that one day a meteorite might smash him into a million pieces, but he never actually believed it. No one did, especially not me. 

No one could've imagined how he would really die.

You learn who your true friends are at times like this. They're the ones who don't avoid you because they don't know what to say. They're the ones who stick by you, feeling awkward, sorry and helpless, but that means everything. Because then you know you're not alone, that maybe you can find some way to cope with it all. I'm lucky that I've got friends like that.

But there's something wrong with me. Why can't I cry? Everyone else seems able to. My mom, who never cries. Layla, who always cries. Random people in the street, mourning the death of the great Commander.

I couldn't even cry at the funeral.

The hearse drove slowly past the crowds that gathered along the snowy streets to watch the procession. Plenty of those people cried. I could see them from behind the blacked out windows of the car. I could hear them, too. Wailing, a gut-wrenching animal sound. How could they cry like that when they didn't even know him and I couldn't even shed a single tear? It made me feel inadequate at first, like I was letting him down, not being a good son.

Then it just made me angry. _They don't even know him_. They were being hysterical, getting caught up in the media frenzy. Pictures of Dad have been on the front page of every newspaper for the last week. There have been special souvenir pull-outs and tributes. Endless reports on the news channels.

_Where were you when you heard the news that the Commander died?_

To them it was just a national event, something they could discuss around the water cooler, shaking their heads sadly then carrying on with their lives.

But I can't let go that easily.

I hadn't met half of the people at the service before. Politicians, minor European royalty, pretty much all of the hero community, active and retired. They all seemed to have something to say about my dad.

A couple of little old ladies pulled me into a hug and patted me on the head. I had no idea who they were.

"Oh such a shame, especially at this time of the year," said one, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

"Yes, dear. To lose your father so near Christmas. So sad. Wouldn't Christmas be nice again?"

I wanted to shout at them. Would this be easier to deal with at any other time? What the hell did Christmas have to do with anything?

Then I felt a hand on my arm. Warren. He knows.

Layla feels for me, I can see the pain in her face and I know it mirrors my own. She can read me better than anyone, but she doesn't understand this. She's too good. But Warren knows all about the dark, how powerful it can be. Didn't he try to burn me alive in the school cafeteria last year because of the need for revenge? He's been watching me, worried about how quiet I've been, what I'm going to do next.

Warren has tried to reason with me. Vengeance is a deep-rooted force in the human psyche, it's found everywhere, in the _Iliad_, _Hamlet_, the bible. An eye for an eye… But he told me I need to rise above this. He's a fine one to talk. Don't act rashly, he said. Yeah, because he's always so composed.

A wall of eyes watched my every move as I stepped up to the pulpit to give the eulogy. The paper shook in my hands. My throat closed up. I tried to speak, but no sound came out. I don't know how long I stood like that, useless and silent, before Layla rescued me. She read the words she helped me write in a clear, calm voice. When she finished, I almost ran out of the church.

I know what they were all thinking. How can he possibly carry on the Stronghold legacy? He can't even read from a piece of paper. I feel the pressure getting to me already. There's a Commander-shaped hole in the universe which I'm expected to fill, and I'm failing. It just don't fit it.

I haven't been home since the funeral. When I left the church, I took to the sky, circling the city day and night. I watched the ordinary citizens happily crunch through the snow on Christmas Eve. They didn't have a care in the world as they skated on the ice rink, threw snowballs and did their last minute gift-buying.

I think about the presents under our tree that would stay unopened. The dinner on Christmas Day that would stay uneaten. I think about how Dad wouldn't get to watch _It's A Wonderful Life. _It was his favourite movie, never failed to make him cry. He was superstrong, but it didn't take much to bring a tear to his eye. That was the difference between the Commander and Steve Stronghold. Dad never hid his emotions from me. He would have been a hero anyway, even if he didn't wear those stupid tights. Because he was my dad.

Now I know what the old ladies at the funeral meant. I would never be able to think of Christmas again without being reminded of everything I've lost.

As night falls, at last I find what I've been unconsciously searching for. 

Hunting for.

Malaphar. The one the villains are fêting with having brought down the mighty Commander.

The one who killed my father…

Of course me and my dad aren't indestructible. Our skin tissue is denser than most people's, giving us near-invulnerability, but there's one thing that can cause us damage. Adamantium. Malaphar knows this. The fact that it's the most expensive, most difficult metal alloy to produce was no obstacle to an accomplished technopath like him.

He sees me hovering above him and tries to escape into the shadows. I chase after him on foot as he weaves through the dark web of alleys. Fear drives him on, but something stronger is spurring me. Retribution. I feel like there's a monster inside me, like I'm on fire.

We reach a dead end and Malaphar has no choice but to turn and face me. He shifts his weight almost imperceptibly, but Mom has taught me well enough in unarmed combat to allow me to see that he's reaching for the dagger. The dagger he used to slash my dad's skin to ribbons. The dagger he used to stab him in the heart fifteen times before he left him to die in a pool of his own blood on the sidewalk.

I knock the dagger out of his hand before he even has a chance to raise it. I hear the bone in his forearm crack as he drops it to the ground, screaming.

All my anger is in my hands and my feet as I hurl a volley of punches and kicks indiscriminately at his body. Mom's teachings about the ethics of attacking a defenceless opponent have leaked out of my mind. I can barely hear his cries of pain. Rage is all I have left as I break more of his bones.

But something makes me stop. I hurl him up against a wall and look at him properly for the first time. He's an unremarkable looking man approaching middle-age, greying hair, receding chin. Someone you wouldn't look twice at in a crowd. You would never guess he could murder somebody in cold blood. Put him in a suit and you'd think he was a lawyer or something.

He's weak. I have him and he knows it. I can see it in his eyes. I could snap him in half. Make him suffer, the same way he made my dad. He deserved it. It would be so easy. Who would know?

_I would know._

Who would blame me?

_I would._

I think I'm finally crying, then I realise that tears aren't supposed to be cold. Snowflakes are falling on my cheeks. The sharp wind tosses the snow in a stark swirl of white against the black sky.

"Go on then… finish it…" Malaphar rasps, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, his breath hanging in the air in pale clouds.

I'm at a crossroads. This will make or break me as a hero. As a man.

In the distance, carollers sing about peace on earth and goodwill to men. I don't feel much of either.

What's the difference between a hero and a villain?

I guess I'm about to find out.

_**End**_


End file.
